Viren pressed his trembling hand against the warped wooden door of the small flower shop. The sign above read SHOP in faded paint. He had signed the lease that morning, coughing through his weaker lung. This was his start. One day, the richest merchant family in Sandspire would beg him to decorate their feasts. The district did not welcome him. Dark, pointed tents loomed across the way, their weathered fabric flapping like tongues clicking judgment. Merchants leaned in doorways and watched him fumble his key. One spat at his polished boots. "Butterfly hands," a fruit seller muttered. "He'll be gone by the new moon." Viren swallowed and stepped inside. Dust drifted through golden light. He set down his crate of pressed petals and dried blooms. His pulse jumped. He gripped the counter until the dizziness passed. Then he began to build. By dusk, a spiraling tower stood outside his door. Bright desert flowers wound around a tall cactus pole, crowned with a small glowing lamp. Reds, oranges, and purples climbed toward the sky. Passersby slowed. A child pointed. A wealthy woman in silk paused, lips parting. "Oh, BEAUTIFUL," hissed a voice behind him. A small orange lizard stood with arms crossed, tail twitching. "Let me GUESS. 'I'll show them all with my pretty flowers!' " Shaska Driftclaw flicked her tongue. "Newsflash, butterfly boy — these snakes EAT soft things! (I should know. I've been chewed.)" Viren turned, breath shallow, and met her yellow eyes. "Then stand beside me," he said quietly. "They can mock two of us just as easily as one." Shaska blinked. The wealthy woman in silk stepped closer to the tower, reaching for a card to leave her name.

The wealthy woman in silk pressed her card into Viren's trembling palm and named a date. She would visit again, with her family, before the week was out. Viren clutched the card like a lifeline. Then he heard the skittering across the sand. A sharp-eared creature darted between the tents, three pink tongues flicking. The fruit seller fed it a whisper. The creature scurried off, repeating his words in a thin, mocking voice. "Butterfly hands. Sickly blood. His flowers will rot by sundown." More merchants leaned down. More whispers. The little beast multiplied its lies with every stop. "Oh no, oh no," stammered a small, flickering sprite beside the shop door. Shimmer wrung translucent hands. "There's a poem — about tongues — no, about wells — I can't, I can't remember which. But that thing is heading toward the big house. The grand one. With the palms." Viren's pulse hammered. The grand house sat at the district's edge, all pale stone arches and wrought iron balconies — the seat where the wealthy family judged every name in Sandspire. If the whispers arrived before he did, his card would be ash. He could not outrun a three-tongued rumor. But he could outshine it. He dragged out the tall display board on stilts and planted it where every passing eye must land. He worked through dizziness, through the spike behind his ribs. Petals climbed the wood in spirals matching the tower beside it. He wrote his name across the center in crushed red bloom. Shaska steadied the base with her tail. Shimmer hovered, reciting half-poems about courage and shipwrecks. By the time the gossip creature reached the manor steps, a small crowd had gathered around Viren's board, murmuring his name with wonder. A servant from the grand house came down the lane, not up. She carried a sealed invitation. The whispers had lost the race — but as she handed it over, she leaned close. "My mistress is curious," she said. "Her husband is not. You have one chance to change his mind."